The glass shattered before I could blink.

It was a small thing, really. A pane from the conservatory door. It had been cracked for weeks, a spiderweb of white lines running from the handle. I held the shards in my bare hands. The blood ran down my wrist. I did not feel the pain. I felt the cold air. It smelled of wet iron and old dust.

I am Arthur Vane. I serve the House of Alder.

The room was vast and empty. The walls were lined with books that had not been opened in decades. The air was still. It smelled of decay. I looked at the glass in my hands. It glittered in the dim light. It was a mirror, but broken. I saw my face in the largest shard. It was pale. It was tired. It was not mine. It was the face of a servant. It was the face of a tool.

The door opened behind me. I did not turn. I knew who it was.

Lord Alder stood in the doorway. He was tall. He wore a coat of black wool. His face was a mask of stone. He looked at the blood on my hands. He did not look at my eyes. He looked at the floor.

Clean it up, he said.

His voice was low. It was soft. It was dangerous. I dropped the glass. It clattered on the stone floor. The sound was sharp. It echoed.

Yes, my lord, I said.

I knelt. I picked up the pieces. I put them in a bucket. The bucket was iron. It was cold. I carried it to the sink. I ran the water. The blood mixed with the silt. It turned the water pink. Then brown. Then clear.

Lord Alder watched me. He never left my side. He stood by the window. He looked out at the garden. The garden was dead. The trees were bare. The sky was grey. It was winter. It had been winter for three days.

You are useful, he said.

I did not answer. I wrung out my hands. The water dripped. Drop by drop.

I am a medium, he said. I have always known.

I stopped moving. I held my breath. The water dripped.

I do not speak, he said. But I hear. I feel. I see things that others cannot.

I looked at him. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a fire that was cold.

Show me, he said.

I did not know what to do. I stood still. I waited. The silence grew heavy. It pressed against my chest. It was a weight. It was a stone.

I closed my eyes. I reached out. I touched the air. I felt the currents. They were thin. They were fragile. They were like threads of silk. I pulled one. It snapped.

A scream filled the room. It was not a sound. It was a vibration. It shook the dust from the ceiling. It shook the books from the shelves.

Lord Alder did not flinch. He smiled. It was a thin smile. It was cruel.

Again, he said.

I reached out again. I pulled another thread. It was thicker. It was warm. It burned my fingertips. I felt a presence. It was close. It was inside the walls. It was inside the floor. It was inside me.

I saw it. It was a child. It was small. It was crying. It was trapped. It was under the foundation.

I opened my eyes. I saw the floor. The stone was black. It was wet. It was moving.

There, I said.

Lord Alder looked at the floor. He looked at the water. He looked at me.

You are not a monster, he said. You are a key.

He walked to the center of the room. He stood on the black stone. He raised his hand. He pointed at me.

Break it, he said.

I did not understand. I looked at the glass in the bucket. I looked at the floor.

Break it, he said.

I walked to the wall. I grabbed a book. It was heavy. It was leather-bound. I swung it. I hit the stone. The stone cracked. A line ran across the floor. It was white. It was bright.

I swung again. I hit the crack. The stone shattered. A piece fell away. It hit the floor. It bounced. It came to rest.

I saw it. It was a bone. It was white. It was old. It was a finger.

Lord Alder knelt. He picked up the bone. He held it up to the light. He looked at it. He looked at me.

It is a gift, he said.

He put the bone in his pocket. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his knees.

You are mine now, he said.

I felt a chill. It ran down my spine. It was cold. It was sharp.

I have always been yours, I said.

He looked at me. His eyes were hard. They were flat.

No, he said. You are mine.

He turned and left. The door closed. The lock clicked. The sound was final.

I was alone.

I stood in the center of the room. The floor was broken. The hole was small. It was dark. I looked into it. I saw nothing. I felt nothing.

I went to the window. I looked out. The garden was still dead. The sky was still grey.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. They were dry. They were strong.

I had done what he wanted. I had broken the threshold. I had let the thing out.

But the thing was not out. The thing was in.

I looked at the hole in the floor. I saw the bone. I saw the darkness.

I realized then that I was not the key. I was the lock.

I had been holding the door shut. I had been holding the world together. And now I had let go.

The air changed. It grew thick. It grew heavy. It tasted of blood. It tasted of iron.

I fell to my knees. The pain returned. It was in my hands. It was in my head. It was in my heart.

I heard a voice. It was not Lord Alder. It was a child. It was the child from the vision.

Help me, it said.

I reached out. I reached into the hole. I felt the cold. I felt the dark. I felt the fear.

I pulled. I pulled with all my strength. I pulled until my arms shook. I pulled until my back broke.

Something came up. It was not a child. It was a hand. It was small. It was pale. It was dead.

I looked at it. I held it. I felt the weight of it. It was heavy. It was real.

I understood then. Lord Alder did not want the secret. He wanted the burden. He wanted the pain. He wanted the cost.

I was the vessel. I was the container. I was the sacrifice.

I looked at the hand. I looked at the hole. I looked at the door.

The door opened.

Lord Alder stood there. He was smiling. He was happy.

Thank you, he said.

I stood up. I held the hand. I held the weight.

No, I said.

He frowned. He looked confused. He looked angry.

You gave it to me, he said. You opened the way.

I shook my head. I looked at the hand. I looked at him.

I did not open the way, I said. I closed it.

He stepped closer. He reached for the hand.

Give it to me, he said.

I pulled back. I held the hand tight. I felt the cold. I felt the death.

It is mine, I said.

He stopped. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. His face was pale.

You cannot keep it, he said. It will destroy you.

I looked at the hand. I looked at the hole. I looked at the glass in the bucket.

I know, I said.

I walked to the sink. I dropped the hand in the water. The water turned black. The water boiled.

Lord Alder screamed. He fell to the floor. He clawed at his face. He clawed at his eyes.

I stood by the sink. I watched him. I felt no pity. I felt no anger. I felt only peace.

The hand sank. It disappeared. The water cleared. It was still. It was quiet.

Lord Alder stopped screaming. He lay on the floor. He was still. He was silent.

I looked at him. He was dead.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. They were strong.

I walked to the window. I opened it. The cold air rushed in. It filled the room. It filled my lungs.

I looked out at the garden. The trees were bare. The sky was grey.

But the wind was moving. The branches were shaking. The leaves were falling.

It was not dead. It was changing.

I closed the window. I locked it. I went to the door. I opened it. I walked out.

The hallway was long. It was dark. The candles flickered. The shadows danced.

I walked to the stairs. I walked down. I walked to the gate.

I stepped out into the street.

The city was quiet. The people were asleep. The shops were closed.

I walked. I walked fast. I walked until my legs burned. I walked until the sun rose.

The sky turned pink. Then orange. Then blue.

I stopped. I stood in the middle of the street. I looked at my hands.

I had no glass. I had no bone. I had no blood.

I had nothing.

I was free.

I was empty.

I was full.

I walked on. I did not look back. I did not think. I did not feel.

I was the threshold. I was the door. I was the path.

And I was gone.